This new embarking of love and life has caught me slightly unawares, my usual knack for cunning remarks and quick replies has eluded me. This humble writer is smitten with a certain young lady that makes him laugh and weep simultaneously. Bless her to death! Additionally, met a fellow blogger at work today who deduced, brilliantly, who I was: Rich Bachelor was drinking at my bar, a talented beautiful nerd whom I wish I had more time to converse with was imbibing on mulled wine and Kentucky bourbon. Thankful for the serendipity that permeates my every step. Thankful for the certain inspiration that encourages my creative dalliances!
Been a month in the making. Been damn near a year of waiting and biting nails till the sale and watching tv that says the economy is waning and listening to realtors say the market is abating as I’m now quietly laying and living in the city in the jewel in the cradle, smiling and loving instead of frustratingly hating what they say is unstable. Ah, life is always destroying and creating and I’m elated to be staying in a town so alive, anticipating every new artist who arrives.
My goodness, how the block sometimes becomes greater than the avenue on which it sits. The block of the writer can be sorely insurmountable and the words which elude tend to taunt like a schoolyard bully until they’re pushed back into the void where they’re hidden like a fugitive. Waiting to be caught, to be harangued and harassed, lassoed and brought back before authorities to face their consequences and be forced to perform like the animals they’ve reluctantly become.
There are days when not writing haunts, a relentless apparition that travels through dreams and prods one’s conscience that sprawls blindly across mattresses like a rock star or a junkie. Preferably like both. The spirit constantly emerges to spur inspiration but is never let loose, a stallion in the stable tied down until race day, banging against the slats of it’s barnyard prison, chomping at the air that stifles it’s mission.
Sold the house built in 1912, with it’s Arabian archways in the living room and it’s ridiculous square footage, the deed is done and it’s now titled to finer folks than I.
Moved into my first apartment in a building erected in the 1930’s and somehow wound up in the the best apartment in the entire joint. The penthouse sweet, if you will, top floor corner and I’m the luckiest bastard to walk the planet because I’ve no idea how or why it all came about.
Living in the city brings me closer to my roots, allows me to spread wings and absorb the culture and happenings of people whom I both admire and despise. They’re all here, in what’s now my neck of the woods, filling the busy little streets where I grew up, these people compose the fascinating tapestry of artistry and architecture, setting itself far apart from the rest.
“Fortunate” is how I would describe my blood and timing and I give undying thanks to the chemistry of the universe for allowing me to experience life at such a wonderful level and have the limited ability to share it with others.
Bittersweet is a silly word. Bitter melon is actually kind of sweet. To be bitter takes too much energy and to being too sweet makes those nearby wary of your motives.
There is no excuse in existence that justifies not writing, no reason true enough to prove a just absence, and I ain’t got no good explanation on why I haven’t been writing. “Ohh, personal things going on” (said in a whiny, upscale maitre’d sort of way), “Ohh, I have too much stuff to do”, “My work and home life is consuming me”, blah blah blah. Truth is I’ve just been lazy and weak. By weak I mean allowing circumstances around me to dictate my behavior and moods instead of controlling my own envrionment. Weak, as in succumbing to self-imposed stress and crying about why things aren’t going my way instead of using said circumstances as insight to my advantage. Yeah. Tony Robbins style. Banana-bunch hands gripping each situation and giving it a daily choke-hold to remind the world that we rule it, it don’t rule us.
But why no writing? No shooting photos? No bicycle, no work out, what do you do with all your mad energy, Mr. Writer? You’re going to let some silly elbow condition stop you from doing what you love? Let your job and it’s silly fears and frustrations prevent you from having fun? With all your heaping turmoil and degrees of madness, wouldn’t all that be endless fuel for the “tap tap tap” of a typewriter? boy, you’d think.
Enough “I” this and “I” that. What about you, fair reader? What about your morals, madness, desires and legacy? What drives the bones to feed on whatever delicacies you consider valuable? Ancestral knowledge piled up in the far corner of our reputed 20% brain tells us that all really need is love. Damn Beatles.
1. A fine pastry
2. A good woman
3. A great song
4. A noble pet
5. A half-assed blog
Surrounded. Like a convict in the grass, stripes down my back and crouching. The walls of this old house close in like deputized bloodhounds, barking and howling like the the wind through the drafty wrinkled windows.
I awake in a house next to a woman too good for me in a house too grand for me. Spoiled for a year while traveling I forgot what it’s like to be grounded and stable. Now that I’m home my writing has taken a back seat to settling in, searching for a job, reacquainting myself with my relationship.
Blocked. Like a convict in the grass, breathing stifled but heartbeat booming. All these words circling my head like buzzards but not being able to find the right road out of my mouth. Or fingertips.
The word “rageaholic” in the header may change. I ain’t no rageaholic. More like a whineaholic. I haven’t been keeping up on my fellow bloggers and their progress and obsess, haven’t been following the news or politics or murders or miracles, as soon as I returned to the media capital of the universe I totally dropped out. I still need to track down those I spoke to while overseas, old friends and school chums, lovers and business contacts.
I hereby vow to crank the Big & Rich, Dead Kennedys, Venom and Willie Dixon while I write as to assure me something worthwhile to post. Everyday.
I solemnly swear. Like a drunken sailor. Or a cornered fugitive.
I’m new to blogging. I’m new to writing where it might actually be read by someone in Poland or New Zealand or Colorado. I find it strange and exhilarating, but above all flattering.
I enjoy reading people who write interesting things and my humility prevents me from thinking anything I write would be remotely considered important or interesting, but it sure is fun.
I’m breaching the fourth wall , looking into the camera and addressing the audience. All beautiful six of you.
Everything I blog is a rough draft. It’s a raw ball of clay rapidly fashioned into a disfigured form that’s thrown into a kiln and given indelible life. Many times a post begins as a mouse and ends up as a rat. Other times the post is a mouse that becomes a man but more often it becomes a corpse pinched in a trap.
Cyberland, Blogburg, the intercomputer, it’s all so seemingly permanent and hardwired, though one bad solar flare or meteor and we’re all using Coke and Toblerone to cook meat. With this being my 101st post, I’m not sure what any of it really means, so I raise my whiskey and give you thanks for hanging out nonetheless.
I picked up a slight case of OCD this morning and thought that the whole house needed to be rearranged and painted a different color.
It took a few hours and now that it’s finished I’m not sure that I won’t spend half the night switching everything back.
About the title: I just threw it up there because I changed the white theme of this blog to black. But then I got to thinking about how cool the color black is in many different respects. It’s cool because it frightens American authority figures and it makes moms across the country drop their doilies and tremble in their homemaker dresses.
The color black has traditionally been thought of as deviant, dangerous, and scary and for some reason the color white somehow signified something pleasant, kind and congenial.
I’ve never quite understood why. The philosophy of color is a strange thing.
White cars are less ominous than black cars. Black leather jackets are universally coveted for their outlaw qualities while those who wear white leather jackets better be fringed, have some cleavage, and a bleach job. Other cool things that are black:
Black Ops (cool if you like repelling and assassinating)
Black Sheep (nobody knows you or understands you, how cool is that?)
Black Coffee (hot and cool)
Black and Tan (mmm, yummy and cool)
Black Power (cool unless you were whitey)
I could play this game all day so I should also include the subtle beauties of vanilla:
White Bread (cool for a quick pb&j)
White Sauce (creamy cool)
Tighty Whities (hahaha ok, maybe not so cool)
White-Out (only cool when huffed on the back of the school bus)
Whitey Ford (a hall of fame pitcher is usually cool)
Despite the fine aspects of the color white, I’ve always thought the color black was by far the most appealing. Whether it’s vehicles, footwear, clothes or metal music. I grew up around a lot of black kids and then later I grew up some more around white kids, now I’m grown up in a land of yellow but I still think black is the coolest crayon in the box.
Being black in America is tough because I saw how it affected the kids I knew but despite such social circumstances they were all ok with me and since then they’ve become these moving, indomitable memories. Plus their clothes always matched, they knew all the funky hits and they mumbled all the funny words that teachers didn’t understand. Now that’s cool.
I’ve been pestered endlessly to join Myfacespacebook, the premier social networking website in all the world. I will admit, it has provided me the ability to reconnect with some, but mostly, NO. I can also appreciate the implications it has for helping people stay in touch with others over great distances, but mostly, NO.
Now I’m obligated to respond to a friend of a friend. Now I have a need to update a profile, a picture, another friend of a friend, a song, and hell, I’m going to list every book I’ve read and movie I’ve seen and tell you my favorite TV show is the one with the talking cartoon dog.
Friendster-facebook-myspace networks are the new cyber tethers and electronic leashes that cell phones used to be. Remember when cell phones were those giant bricks only rich folks had? How hilarious would it be to stand in line at the store yakking on one of those today? I’m going to get a little Nokia slapped in one of those big suckers and then yell into it just to aggravate those around me. Holy digressions!